Kathryn Sadakierski

Kathryn Sadakierski

localism

A rose-colored flame of cloud Smolders in the orange rind of sky Behind the fire department,

Next to the white church With its bell-shaped dome In the cupped palms Of the blue mountains, Hands open to prayer.

Up the hill beside the church, Ribbon-ropes of white fences, Meandering porches strung with lights at night, Curve around riding trails, stables, And a barn with a green shamrock painted on it.

The tree bent in half, in the woods surrounding, With its leaves touching the ground, Is like someone stretching, Trying to reach their toes, While the girl learning to climb a tree In her backyard Lifts her eyes above, Finding answers in the branches Where she places her feet and her hopes.

Streams and stone, Fields and farms, Cows and colonial homes, Horses, and all-seeing apple trees Yielding fruit for many moons Are in this town I know.

Sometimes where you’re from Is where you’ll go, And you find your way back Through the topography of tree roots That almost trip you, But also lead you home.